MARGINS. 

POEMS. 

BY 

FRANCIS  BROOKS. 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 

611 


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MARGINS 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


BY 

FRANCIS  BROOKS 


CHICAGO : 
Se:ari.k  & Gorton 


COPYRIGHT,  1896 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


I. 


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*o 


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r 


T6>  HIM 

Whose  plenteous  hand  and  fe^'tile  brain 
Bid  flowers  that  fade  to  bloom  again  ^ 
Whose  eyes  are  sanctity^  whose  brow 
Doth  wear  the  aureole  e'^en  now, 

These  tattered  lines  I dedicate  — 

These  beggars  at  a Prince'' s gate. 

Ah'*  he  give  alms,  not  once  may  fall 
Their  shadows  on  the  public  wall. 

Not  once  accost  the  passer-by 
For  sustenance,  just  ere  they  die: 

The  drachmas  of  his  praise  shall  last 
Tho'  all  the  niggard  world  speed  past. 


r 


TITULAR 


MargiiivS  of  the  mere  and  moor, 
Margins  of  the  sea  by  shell 
Convoluted,  many-hued. 

Mosses  manifold,  defined  ; 

Margins  of  the  furrowed  fields, 
Daisy-decked,  and  aster- starred  ; 
Margins  of  the  woods  when  Spring, 
Joyous  from  the  shadowed  depths. 
Smiles  in  every  violet ; 

Margins  of  the  day  and  night. 
Dimness  of  the  dusk  and  dawn  ; 
Margins  of  the  sky  and  earth. 

Faint  horizons,  mystic,  far  ; 
Margins  of  the  city  streets. 

Endless,  tense  humanity  ; 


6 


MARGINS 


Margins  of  life,  pure  infancy 
And  serene  old  age  — to  know 
These  and  dream  what  lies  beyond, 
Children  of  men  ! untraveled  worlds. 
So,  mayhap,  just  on  the  marge 
Of  superior  and  truer. 

Lovelier  things,  these  verses  cling  — 
Like  the  curling  tender  vine. 
Creeping  ’long  the  vast  cliff’s  brow. 
Void  below,  a world  above  : 

Even  on  the  verge  of  beauty. 
Hemming  wisdom’s  sable  robe. 
Bordering  inspiration,  yes. 

Tangent  to  the  sphere  of  love. 

Surely  never  pivotal. 


I 

I LOVE  THEE 

I love  thee,  and  my  love  is  one, 

An  undivided  unity. 

It  is  distinct  and  separate. 

It  dwells  apart  from  other  loves, 
Particular,  and  freely  strange. 

Its  excellence  doth  grow  from  thine, 
And  thy  rich  nature  is  its  soil  ; 

It  can  exist  alone  by  thee. 

Thou  art  its  only  atmosphere  ; 

And  thou  shalt  never  know  its  like  — 
For  the  conjunction  of  our  souls 
Is  singular  and  unrepeated. 

I love  thee,  and  my  love  is  sane. 

It  is  methinks  a holiness. 


8 


MARGINS 


And  thus  alone  is  beautiful. 

I love  thee,  flesh  and  soul  I love, 
Which  are  but  one  indeed  though  two, 
And  each  is  both,  and  each  is  all. 
Thou  art  to  me  the  universe, 

For  woman  is  the  type  and  sign 
Of  all  that  is,  and  even  God 
It  may  be  hath  a woman’s  soul. 

I love  thy  every  attitude 
Of  mind  and  body,  and  I come 
To  thy  embrace  as  to  a shrine. 
Wherein  I’m  purified  and  shrived 
Of  every  weakness  and  defilement. 

I love  the  fragrance  of  thy  hair. 

And  thy  soft  skin,  thy  every  line 
And  contour,  as  the  chastity 
And  the  perfection  of  thy  soul. 

I love  thee,  but  with  human  art 
Can  not  express  my  feeblest  love. 


I LOVK  THEE 


9 


The  wonders  of  thy  will  I love, 

The  vibrance  of  thy  voice  doth  stir 
A god  within  me,  and  I fall 
To  rhapsodies  of  sapiency. 

To  trances  of  a fuller  life. 

To  divinations  and  delights. 

And  though  as  3^et  I have  but  known 
Thee  in  the  dreams  of  fairy  hope. 

My  love  is  e’en  an  archimage 
And  will  create  what  it  desires. 


II 


DEAR  MOTHER 

How  in  these  days  of  early  bud  and  leaf, 

My  heart,  long  locked  in  cold,  relentless  grief. 
Conies  forth  to  thy  embrace. 

As  of  thine  own,  thy  lineal  race, 

O Mother,  Mother  Nature. 

What  other  love  have  I,  what  smile  but  thine 
Can  woo  away  the  melancholy  line. 

And  like  a sun  unbind 

The  frozen  currents  of  the  mind. 

Dear  Mother,  Mother  Nature. 

Yea,  when  these  airs,  these  fragrances,  these  tints 
Of  grass  and  sky,  green  presages  and  hints 
Of  what  thy  triumphs  be. 


DEAR  MOTHER 


II 


Surround  me  thus,  I love  but  thee, 

But  thee,  O Mother  Nature. 

Begone,  ye  Imsts  for  all  or  any  gain. 

This  day  at  least,  my  soul,  be  free  from  stain, 

For  thou  shalt  sacrifice 

To  love  whatever  thou  holdst  of  price, 

To  love  for  thee,  my  Mother. 

Thy  womb  once  more  shall  shield  thy  child  within. 
And  I shall  be  what  I before  have  been, 

A part  of  thee,  by  thee  caressed. 

My  first  beloved,  my  last,  my  best. 

My  Mother,  Mother  Nature. 


Ill 


FOR  SUCH 

Who  hears  fond  laughter  on  the  passing  breeze, 
Mingled  with  distant  music’s  strain, 

Who  hears  slow  footsteps  lingering  with  ease 
Along  the  pavement,  pacing  twain. 

And  sits  with  breaking  heart  and  filling  eyes  alone  : 

With  throat  constricted,  brow  oppressed,  who  hears 
And  hates  the  sound  of  others’  joy, 

Until  the  tightening  anguish  draws  hot  tears. 

And  fiendish  mania  to  destroy. 

Sweeps  thro’  the  harrowed  brain,  that  bides  the  throe 
alone  ; 

Alone,  shut  from  the  solace  of  sweet  eyes. 

Such  have  they  been  or  might  they  be. 


FOR  SUCH 


13 


Soft  eyes  that  from  remembrance  fall  to  rise 
Again  and  ope  more  tenderly, 

Making  more  desolate  the  bitter  hours  alone  : 

Who  looks  upon  the  pageant  of  the  gay, 

While  etch  thro’  the  mind  the  acids  of  regret. 
And  dizzy  with  the  poison  turns  away. 

Lest  the  glad  tumult  peradventure  fret 
To  madness  one  who  feels  the  canker  least  alone  : 

For  such  the  consolation  will  remain. 

While  floats  fond  laughter  on  the  passing  breeze. 
Mingled  with  distant  music’s  strain, 

And  tread  slow  footsteps  lingering  with  ease 
Along  the  pavement,  Death  will  strangle  each  alone. 


IV 


Nature  hath  not  converse  with  her  acolyte 
Alone  by  day  ; 

But  in  the  night  and  such  a night  as  this, 

The  first  that  cometh  balmy  in  the  vSpringtime. 


As  I passed  where  loosely  the  vine, 
The  yet  leafless  vine. 

Clung  to  the  wall. 

It  rustled  and  shook  ; 

Thrilled  to  the  soul 
Methought  I heard  it  say, 

“ I live  again.” 


I threw  myself  on  the  ground. 
The  fragrant  earth, 


I LIVE  AGAIN 


15 


And  the  tender  little  grass 
Touched  gently  my  ears 
That  heard  it  say, 

“ I live  again.” 

And  the  tree  bough  above 
Just  tipped  with  green, 

Swayed  to  the  impulse 
Of  a warm  and  virile  wind. 

And  said  with  passionate  voice, 

” I live  again.” 

The  unfettered  wave  that  broke 
Along  the  shore  in  strictest  cadence. 
Ceaselessly, 

Sung  but  one  refrain, 

” I live  again.” 


And  the  light  and  the  fire 
Of  prophesy  passed  thro'  my  heart. 


1 6 MARGINS 

And  almost  faint  with  emotion 
I whispered 
Alone  to  myself, 

“ I,  too,  shall  live  again.’ 


V 


A VOICE 

From  out  of  that  I’ve  suffered, 

Out  of  that  I’ve  borne, 

From  out  a tortured  mind 

And  bruised  heart  this  strain  is  torn. 

’Tis  not  a weak  lamenting, 

Nor  a slavish  groan. 

It  is  the  ring  that  follows 

When  steel  on  steel  is  thrown. 

It  is  a fierce  rebellion 

’Gainst  the  partial  hand. 

That  spreads  for  some  a banquet 
But  for  others  tasteless  sand. 


i8 


MARGINS 


It  is  the  spirit  warring 
With  the  force  of  fate, 

What  matter  what  we  name  it 

Which  determines  both  the  small  and  great 

And  men  where’er  they  hear  it, 

Having  felt  an  equal  curse, 

Will  tremble  with  the  music 

Beating  ever  thro’  the  verse. 

But  those  whose  lives  are  pampered. 

Lax  with  lust  and  soft  content. 

Will  never  hear  but  jangling 

Of  a harp  whose  strings  are  rent. 


VI 

IN  ABRAHAM’S  BOSOM 

Ye  lyrists  of  love,  ye  prophets  of  hate, 

Your  fondness  will  heighten. 

Your  hatred  abate. 

In  Abraham’s  bosom. 

Ye  cherished  elect,  ye  impeachers  of  fate. 

Ye  mourners  and  laughers,  ye  small  and  ye  great. 
Your  souls  will  be  kindred. 

Together  elate. 

In  Abraham’s  bosom. 

O cloak  from  the  cold,  O shade  from  the  heat. 
The  good  is  renewed. 

The  bitter  made  sweet. 

In  Abraham’s  bosom. 


20 


MARGINS 


O goal  for  the  weary,  O goal  for  the  fleet, 
O fountain  exhaustless,  O valley  complete 
Ye  men,  do  ye  doubt 
That  with  blessings  ye’ll  meet, 

In  Abraham’s  bosom  ? 

All  strivings  ye  end,  all  purposes  gain. 
When  wafted  to  rest 
Without  fretting  or  pain. 

In  Abraham’s  bosom. 

O softly  they  chorus,  I hear  them  again, 
The  voices  that  join  in  a mellow  refrain. 
That  nothing  is  evil 
And  nothing  is  vain. 

In  Abraham’s  bosom. 

Thou  incense  of  women,  religion  of  mine. 
I’ll  worship  thee  still 
When  thy  beauties  recline 
In  Abraham’s  bosom. 


IN  ABRAHAM’S  BOSOM 


21 


0 fear  thou  not  death,  for  its  secrets  are  thine, 
Are  his  or  are  hers,  who  doth  love  the  divine  ; 

Thou  lovest  thy  God  — 

1 thee  and  a line. 


In  Abraham’s  bosom. 


VII 

SONG  FROM  THE  FOREST 

Our  light  flashing  waters, 

Our  grasses  and  trees, 

Our  fair  graceful  daughters 
Are  waiting  to  please  : 
Wamsutta,  Wamsutta, 

We  wait  thy  decrees. 

O first  in  the  morning 
To  welcome  the  sun, 

And  first  of  those  scorning 
When  battle  ’s  begun  : 
Wamsutta,  Wamsutta, 

Thy  vnll  shall  be  done. 


SONG  FROM  THE  FOREST 


23 


Thy  princess  is  longing, 

The  loved  Wetamoo, 
Thy  warriors  are  thronging 
Thy  monarchy  through  : 
Wamsutta,  Wamsutta, 

Thy  kindred  are  true. 

O chieftain  undaunted, 

O bender  of  bows. 

By  friends  never  taunted. 
Excelling  thy  foes  : 
Wamsutta,  Wamsutta, 

Come  hither  repose. 


VIII 


PETER  AFTER  GETHSEMANE 

They  led  him  then  to  Caiaphas, 
Corrupt  and  bold, 

They  bade  him  in  the  palace  pass, 

His  hour  was  told. 

And  Peter  followed  after  them 
With  sinking  heart, 

His  Christ  had  lost  the  diadem, 

His  sword  its  part. 

Around  the  fire  the  menials  drew. 

The  night  was  cold. 

And  Peter  joined  the  servile  crew. 

By  fear  controlled. 


PETER  AFTER  GETHSEMANE 


25 


And  crouching  there  in  gloom  and  doubt, 
His  courage  gone, 

He  heard  within  the  scoff  and  shout, 
Before  the  dawn. 

He  saw  above  the  open  court 
The  starred  wold, 

He  heard  within  the  mocking  shout, 

The  night  was  cold. 

A damsel  there  addressed  him  then, 

“ And  thou  wast  one.” 

But  he  denied,  and  once  again. 

The  loved  son. 

Himself  he  cursed  for  his  low  lie. 

The  heavens  rolled  : 

Afeared  to  stay,  afeared  to  fly. 


The  lie  was  told. 


26 


MARGINS 


And  once  again  a maid  accused, 
But  he  swore,  ‘ ' No  ! ’ ’ 

And  as  the  dawn  the  east  suffused. 
The  cock  did  crow. 

Without  into  the  morn  he  fled. 

The  stars  were  old. 

And  bitter,  burning  tears  he  shed. 
That  morning  cold. 


IX 

TWO  SONGS  FOR  THE  TIMES 

Ye  sons  of  toil,  awake  ! 

Your  bondage  break, 

Your  children  free  ; 

Created  by  your  hands 
Your  tyrant  stands. 

Plutocracy  ; 

God  save  those  hands, 

God  grant  their  just  demands, 
Demands  of  labor. 

Unfurl  the  flags  of  toil, 

'Gainst  hate  and  spoil 

Let  her  trumpets  sound  ; 


28 


MARGINS 


And  let  her  claim  her  own, 
This  brick  and  stone, 

This  fertile  ground  ; 

God  blind  her  foes, 

God  fill  their  hearts  with  woes. 
The  woes  of  labor. 

To  toil,  honor  and  praise. 

Your  voices  raise. 

Ye  men  of  work  ; 

Why  will  ye  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth’s  decree. 

To  those  who  shirk  ; 

God  end  this  curse, 

God  give  to  all  one  purse. 

The  purse  of  labor. 

To  labor  is  to  pray, 

There’s  no  other  way 
To  God’s  embrace ; 


TWO  SONGS  FOR  THE  TIMES 


29 


But  idleness  is  crime, 

And  out  of  place 
And  out  of  time. 

God  shield  our  land, 

God  make  us  one  true  band. 
The  band  of  labor. 


X 


THE  FORGE 

On  the  anvil  ring, 

Hammers  swing  — 
Strike  hard,  strike  light. 
While  the  iron’s  bright 
And  the  sparks  take  flight, 
For  we  strike  for  the  right. 
For  the  right. 

For  the  right, — 
And  the  hammers  ring. 
Ring,— ring. 

On  the  anvil  ring. 

Hammers  swing  — 
Strike  short,  strike  long. 
With  a curse  and  a song 


THE  FORGE 


31 


Till  the  sparks  in  a throng 
Fly  up  for  the  wrong, 

For  the  wrong, 

For  the  wrong, — 
And  the  hammers  ring. 
Ring,— ring. 

On  the  anvil  ring. 

Hammers  swing  — 
Strike  one,  strike  two. 

Till  the  iron’s  blue 
And  the  sparks  are  few. 
For  we  strike  for  the  new. 
For  the  new. 

For  the  new, — 

And  the  hammers  ring. 
Ring,— ring. 


XI 


GIVE  US  THE  BOWL 

Good  and  pleasure, 

Evil  and  pain 
Fill  up  the  measure, 

Give  us  to  drain. 

Fill  it  up  heaping 
Never  the  half ; 

The  twain  are  in  keeping. 
Give  us  to  quaff. 

This  is  the  mingling 
Maketh  life  whole, 
Maketh  it  tingling, 


Give  us  the  bowl. 


GIVE  US  THE  BOWE 


33 


Down  with  it  quickly 
Fire  and  ice, 

Down  with  it,  sickly 
Whiner  at  vice. 

Drink  it  gallant. 

Cowards  must  drink. 

Folly  and  talent 

No  one  may  shrink. 

One  is  the  other. 

Both  are  the  same  ; 

Drink  it,  my  brother. 
Drink  it  in  flame. 

This  is  the  mingling 
Maketh  life  whole, 

Maketh  it  tingling. 


Give  us  the  bowl. 


ARION 


Clad  in  his  robes  of  purple  fringed  with  gold, 

Upon  the  lofty  prow  Arion  stood 
Full  in  the  sunlight ; then  with  touch  both  bold 
And  sweet  he  struck  his  lyre  o’er  the  flood. 

The  blended  beauty  of  the  sea  and  sky 

At  once  seemed  filled  with  spirit  forms,  that  came 
Right  gently  stealing  in  a harmony 

From  their  abodes,  the  sailors’  hearts  to  tame. 

Not  Periander’s  court,  nor  Sicily, 

Had  heard  such  ravishing  delights  till  now 
Arion,  with  surpassing  minstrelsy. 

Drew  forth  transfigured  on  the  carven  prow  — 

But  what  can  break  the  links  of  lucre’s  chain : 

The  sailors  scowled,  the  bard  plunged  in  the  main. 


XIII 


IN  CHEYENNE  CANON 

She  rests  upon  a mount, 

She  looks  upon  a plain, 

She  hears  the  waters  count 

Man’s  hours  of  joy  and  pain. 

The  cones  are  heaped  high 
Upon  the  simple  grave 

That  steadfast  views  the  sky. 

The  sky,  its  architrave. 

In  outline  far  below 

The  silent  village  lies  ; 

And  viewless  human  woe 
Or  frenzied  human  eyes. 


36 


MARGINS 


The  winds  sleep  in  the  firs, 

Or  howl  about  the  peaks  ; 
But  she,  she  never  stirs. 

Whatever  be  their  freaks. 

And  she  hath  chosen  well 
This  lofty  resting  place 
So  far  from  steeple  bell. 

So  near  to  nature’s  race. 


XIV 


Freckled  are  her  cheeks, 

Her  heart  is  pure  as  snow, — 

Freckled  are  her  cheeks 

Through  which  the  roses  blow, 

Roses  blow  of  chastest  pink  and  white. 

Through  the  freckles  like  a blessing  thro’  a blight. 

Budded  lips  of  — shall 

I publish  their  delight  ? 

Budded  lips  of  — well 

They  softly  cling  and  bite. 

Cling  and  bite  in  such  a fervent  way. 

Flavored  like  the  fragrance  of  the  springtime  spray. 


38 


MARGINS 


Glossy  brown  her  hair, 

Her  hands  are  tapering, 

Glossy  brown  her  hair 

Where  light  is  capering, 
lyight  is  capering  and  bringing  out  the  red. 
Shading  into  auburn  ere  the  light  hath  fled. 

Eyes  of  fairy  blue 

But  traitors  to  themselves. 

Eyes  of  fairy  blue 

But  turning  into  elves. 

Turning  into  elves  of  subtle  roguish  gray. 
Peering  in  your  heart  and  laughing  at  your  nay. 

Guard,  O guard  them  well. 

My  brothers,  heart  and  brain. 

Guard,  O guard  them  well, 

Most  vestal,  free  from  stain, — 

Free  from  stain  a nation  will  endure 
Potent  and  majestic,  be  its  women  pure. 


XV 

LIVINGSTONE 

On  dusky  shoulders 

Ported  through  hot  Afric’s  swamps, 
Where  the  slaver’s  victim  molders 
And  the  ugly  Soko  romps, 

Behold  the  man  — 

Within  his  stretcher  lying. 

Body  torn. 

Thin  and  worn, 

But  hopefully  defying 
Death  ! 

With  feeble  fingers 

Grasping  still  his  honest  pen, 


40 


MARGINS 


With  a trust  that  never  lingers 

Writes  he  midst  the  murky  fen, 
Of  what  he  sees 

And  thinks  and  feels  there  lying, 
Body  torn. 

Thin  and  worn, 

But  hopefully  defying 
Death  ! 

Tho’  the  miles  before  him 

Are  a thousand  dangerous, 

Tho’  the  sun,  a furnace  o’er  him. 
Burns  his  flesh  all  feverous. 

He  presses  on 

Within  his  vStretcher  lying. 

Body  torn. 

Thin  and  worn. 

But  hopefully  defying 
Death  ! 


LIVINGSTONE) 


41 


No  white  man  near  him 

As  he  breathes  his  last  brave  word, 
No  loved  voice  to  kindly  cheer  him, 

By  immortal  courage  stirred, 
Unflinchingly 

He  meets  his  fate  there  lying. 

Body  torn. 

Thin  and  worn. 

But  hopefully  defying 
Death  ! 

The  world’s  a debtor 

For  his  life  of  fortitude. 

For  a million  lives  made  better 

By  his  struggle  with  the  brood 
Of  Afric’s  ills, 

Within  his  stretcher  lying, 

Body  torn. 

Thin  and  worn, 


42 


MARGINS 


But  hopefully  defying 
Death  ! 

And  in  future  ditties, 

When  a people  great  as  ours 
Fill  that  land  with  pleasant  cities, 
Patriot  bards  will  scatter  flowers 
On  Livingstone, 

Within  his  stretcher  lying. 

Body  torn, 

Thin  and  worn. 

But  hopefully  defying 
Death  ! 


XVI 


THE  KING  OF  NAPLES 

Huzza  ! 

Murat,  intrepid,  splendid  Murat  ! 
Plaudits  for  the  child  of  war  — 

Huzza  ! Huzza  ! 

Brilliant  Murat ! 

The  cannon  a moment  are  mute. 

And  ceases  a moment  the  bruit. 

The  clamor  of  battle  ; 

The  steeds  are  pawing. 

The  sabres  are  drawing. 

The  breast  plates  rattle. 

The  bugle  note  rings  in  his  ear. 

It  thrills  to  his  heart. 

As  fiercely,  proudly  they  start. 


44 


MARGINS 


For  France,  for  Bonaparte  ; 

Their  joy  bringing  tears 

At  the  word  of  command, — Charge  ! Cuirassiers. 

Ah,  grandly  they  sweep  on  the  foe, 

A torrent  of  death  and  of  woe 
To  the  Austrians  in  line. 

The  battle  smoke  shifted 
Their  standards  are  lifted. 

The  bayonets  shine. 

Make  way  for  the  lion,  Murat  ! 

Magnificent,  plumed. 

His  charger  caparisoned,  groomed. 

He  leaps  with  the  van  on  the  doomed. 

The  enemy  waver  — they  break,  and  the  star 
Of  Napoleon  is  lustred  by  deeds  of  Murat. 
Plaudits  for  the  child  of  war. 

Magnificent,  victorious  Murat. 


XVII 


sweetheart 

Here’s  to  your  hands,  sweetheart, 

So  long  and  white  and  slender  ; 

Here’s  to  your  eyes,  sweetheart. 

So  large  and  deep  and  tender. 

Here’s  to  the  heart,  sweetheart, 

Your  slender  hands  have  thrilled  with  ; 

Here’s  to  the  soul,  sweetheart. 

Your  tender  eyes  have  filled  with. 

Here’s  to  the  love,  sweetheart. 

Your  heart  and  hands  created  ; 

Here’s  to  the  love,  sweetheart. 

Your  soul  and  eyes  related. 


46 


MARGINS 


Here’s  to  the  hour,  sweetheart, 

Our  souls  and  eyes  were  plighted 
Here’s  to  the  day,  sweetheart. 

Our  hearts  and  hands  united. 


XVIII 


AN  ASPECT  OF  AUTUMN 

Yellow  are  the  alder  leaves, 

Yellow  are  the  wild  cherry  leaves, 

Yellow  are  the  broad-leaved  ferns, 

Yellow  is  the  lakeside  sedge, 

Yellow  with  age,  about  to  die. 

Yellow  and  red  are  the  maple  leaves. 

Scarlet  and  golden  and  red. 

But  the  cedars  are  green, 

And  the  hemlocks,  the  firs. 

The  spruces  are  green, — 

Their  trunks  are  green  with  moss. 

The  berries  hang  red  on  the  Madrone  trees. 
And  from  the  bows  the  twittering, 


48 


MARGINS 


The  melancholy  twittering 
Of  some  belated  bird,  yet  lingering, 
lyOath  to  leave,  uncertain,  ill  at  ease. 

The  skies  are  the  color  of  ashes  and  steel, 

But  here  and  there  tinted  with  coral. 

Here  and  there  flushed  with  purple. 

Before  me  lies  the  long  and  misty  lake, — 

I hear  the  dull  throbbing  of  some  distant  steamer 
Painfully  as  it  were  my  own  heart. 

I peer  into  the  hazy  distance 

Out  of  which  arise  the  imperturbable  mountains, — 
The  calm  waters  of  the  lake  reflect  the  heavens. 
Reflect  the  trees  and  the  mountains. 

Go  not,  go  not,  sweet  summer  days. 

Die  not,  O Nature,  that  lived  so  well. 

Or  if  ye  will,  let  me  also  die. 


AN  ASPECT  OF  AUTUMN 


49 


Too  intense  are  my  emotions, 

Unto  the  grave  I go  suffering, 

Life  is  my  punishment. 

I may  not  sit  at  the  banquet  of  life 
With  the  feasters,  the  joyous  and  gay  ; 

But,  O Death,  my  lover,  my  king. 

Of  thee  they  cannot  deprive  me. 

The  day  or  the  night  will  come 
When  I shall  hold  thee  in  my  arms, 

My  own,  and  none  shall  forbid  me. 

Like  a pure  spring  to  the  shipwrecked  one. 

Many  days,  many  hot  and  scorching  days 
Without  water  ; 

Like  the  edict  that  calls  the  exile  home, 

Like  the  triumph  of  liberty  that  strikes  the  fetters 
From  the  galled  limbs  of  the  patriot. 

Thus  art  thou  to  me,  O my  friend,  my  lord. 


50 


MARGINS 


How  Still  is  the  hour,  the  trees,  the  lake, 

How  still  are  the  perennial  mountains, 

How  still  are  the  dying  leaves,  the  dying  ferns. 

How  still  is  Death,  Death  the  unguent  of  lacerated 
souls. 


XIX 

IN  PORT 

Snug  in  the  harbor  lying, 

Anchors  cast 
And  cables  fast, 

Day  to  night  a-dying  ; 

All  my  thoughts  to  thee  are  flying. 
Marguerite, 

Maiden  sweet. 

From  forth  the  fleet 

Shoreward  sighing. 

O’er  the  sea  aligning. 

Comes  the  mist 
By  billows  kist. 

Round  me  twined  and  twining  ; 


52 


MARGINS 


How  its  lips  are  cold  and  brining, 
Marguerite, — 

Thine  are  sweet. 

Musk  and  meet 

To  put  me  pining. 

The  masthead  lights  are  gleaming, 
And  to  lee 
I dimly  see 

Cottage  lamps  a-beaming  ; 

Haply  thou  art  there  a-dreaming. 
Marguerite, 

Of  the  fleet, 

'And  one  discreet 

Thy  love  esteeming. 

Tonight  my  watch  I’m  heeding, 
But  at  morn 
The  fleet  I’ll  scorn. 

Swiftly  landward  speeding ; 


IN  PORT 


53 


All  my  soul  to  thee  conceding, 
Marguerite  — 
lyips  shall  meet 
And  hearts  shall  beat 
With  love  proceeding. 


XX 

What  to  me  is  your  name, 

Your  position,  your  fame. 

Your  honor,  your  pelf- — 

I care  for  nothing  but  yourself. 

Come  not  to  me  in  the  guise 
Of  office,  of  profitable  ties ; 

You  insult  me  as  far  as  you  can 
If  you  come  not  merely  the  man. 


XXI 


I lay  upon  my  love’s  soft  breast 
One  night,  one  night ; 

My  lips  by  her  dear  lips  carest, 
Delight,  delight. 

The  grass  lies  on  my  love’s  soft  breast. 
To-night,  to-night ; 

By  death  are  her  dear  lips  carest, 

’Tis  trite,  ’tis  trite. 


XXII 

freedom 

Freedom  is  not  circumstance 
Nor  dwelleth  she  in  chance 
Or  palaces  of  stone  ; 

Not  in  our  own 


freedom 


55 


But  in  the  liberties  of  others, 

She  reigneth  not  on  the  throne 
Of  self  but  in  the  hearts  of  our  brothers. 

Slavery  is  in  the  sense, 

Freedom  is  obedience 
To  a higher  law 
Than  that  we  saw 
And  worshiped  days  before. 

’Tis  when  we  find  the  crystal’s  flaw 
And  seek  a purer  ’long  life’s  shore. 

Slavery  is  in  the  appetite. 

That  shuts  our  eyes  to  the  light 
Of  self-control. 

But  in  the  soul 

Of  him  who  scorns  the  vassalage  of  the  vicious, 
Freedom’s  drumbeats  roll. 

And  each  pulsation  is  delicious. 


56 


MARGINS 


Not  in  the  State’s  decree 
Is  found  this  precious  liberty, 

Not  in  detail 
Of  fortune  or  the  frail 

Tenure  of  him  who  seeks  the  crowd’s  hosannahs. 

For  all  these  things  may  fail, 

They  are  not  truths,  they  are  but  manners. 

Would  you  have  a people  free. 

Perfect  your  own  individuality  ; — 

Construct  the  will. 

That  steady,  calm  and  still 
Presses  on  to  your  own  consummation. 

So  shall  you  draw  your  fellows  on  and  fill 
With  freedom  to  the  borders  of  the  nation. 

Would  you  all  a land  enslave. 

Send  every  man  a coward  to  the  grave, 

Give  them  a lust  ; 


freedom 


57 


Then  their  chivalry  shall  rust 
Faster  than  the  chains  they  cringing  bear, 
And  their  minds  shall  crumble  into  dust 
Faster  than  they  hope,  in  their  wild  despair. 


XXIII 

Trickle,  trickle,  little  stream. 

In  the  sunlight  flash  and  gleam  ; 
Wear  into  the  granite  stone 
Till  your  might  the  bowlder  own. 

Sparkle,  sparkle,  little  eyes. 

To  his  questions  flash  replies  ; 
Love  him  day  and  love  him  night. 
You  shall  stay  his  fancy’s  flight. 


XXIV 

They  say  that  I love  you  — 
They  surely  are  wrong, 
For  lust  is  not  love, 

Nor  stuttering,  song. 

They  say  that  I hate  you  — 
How  can  it  be  so. 

For  scorn  is  not  hate. 

As  ebb  is  not  flow. 


XXV 

EN  AVANT  (HUSSARS) 

Out  of  the  shadow 
Into  the  light, 

Out  of  the  calm 
Into  the  fight ; 

Give  me  the  surge  of  the  battle 
The  sulphurous  smoke, 
Give  me  the  musketry’s  rattle 
The  bayonet  stroke. 

Forth  from  the  forest 
Into  the  plain. 

Crimson  with  blood. 


Blood  of  the  slain  ; 


6o 


MARGINS 


Give  me  to  see  but  the  flashing 
Of  cannon  and  shell, 

Give  me  to  hear  but  the  crashing, 
The  battery’s  knell. 

Out  of  indifference 
Into  our  fate. 

Bitter  is  death 

Idly  we  wait ; 

Better  to  fall  ’neath  the  waving 
Of  banners  advanced. 

Better  to  spend  the  heart’s  craving 
Where  cavalry  pranced. 

Out  of  the  silence 
Into  the  song. 

Out  of  the  heart 

Toving  so  long  ; 

Burst  are  the  fetters. 


DAYBREAK 


Sweet  to  be  free, 

Sweet  even  bondage 
Freedom  for  thee  ; 

Better  to  dare  and  to  perish 

Made  conscious  thro'  pain, 
Better  than  callous  to  cherish 
Each  moment  in  vain. 


XXVI 

DAYBREAK 

To  me,  not  in  the  day. 

Nor  even  in  the  night. 

But  ever,  just  midway 

Between  the  dark  and  light 


62 


MARGINS 


Between  the  night  and  morn 
When  steeples  fade  to  gray, 
When  the  day  comes  to  be  born 
And  mists  are  creeping  away  : 

A soft  air  stirs  in  m}^  room 

And  cools  my  nuded  breast, 
While  the  day  is  yet  in  the  w^omb. 
And  my  heart  is  still  at  rest, — 

lyOW  murmuring  doth  say  : 

I am  an  infant  wind. 

And  twin  of  the  infant  day 
That  follows  near  behind. 

‘ ^ Embassador  am  I 

And  herald  of  the  dawn  ; 

I fill  the  changing  sky, 

I thrill  the  dewy  lawn  : 


ARIZONA 


‘ ‘ And  waken  such  as  thee 

To  feel  my  mild  caress, 

To  view  this  plain  mystery, — 
A morning’s  holiness  : 

To  know  the  miracle  of  time. 
The  miracle  of  space. 

The  wondrous  pantomime 

When  day  comes  on  apace. 


XXVII 

ARIZONA 

Who  hath  trod  the  heated  sands 
Of  Arizona, 

And  scorched  by  her  sun 
Continued  uncomplaining  ? 


64 


MARGINS 


Who  hath  been  in  the  Gila  valley, 

In  the  barren  mountains, 

By  the  dried-up  streams. 

And  loved  her  infertility  ; 

Or  drunk  the  dry  air  of  her  wide  plains 
As  wine  ? 

Who  hath  seen  the  fitness  there 
Of  all  things  — 

The  reptile,  the  rock. 

The  coyote  and  the  Apache  ? 

Who  hath  considered  her  resonant  canons. 
Her  gigantic  cacti, 

And  their  wondrous  blossoms. 

Her  rubies,  her  gold, 

And  her  copper,  colored  like  her  sunshine  ; 
Who  hath  comprehended  her  uniqueness. 
And  felt  for  her  a fervent  passion 
Such  as  her  burning  wastes 
Are  worthy  of? 


ARIZONA 


65 


Who  hath  reflected  on  her  mysteries, 

Her  buried  cities, 

Her  wonderful  petrifactions. 

Her  boiling  springs. 

Her  crawling  creatures. 

Her  flying  creatures  ? 

Who  hath  witnessed  her  inordinate  thirst. 
Who  hath  seen  her  blossom  and  bear 
lyike  the  tropics 

When  her  thirst  hath  been  quenched  ? 
Behold,  she  is  of  the  South  and  West, 
Her  aspect  fierce  and  wild, 

Strange,  uninterpreted. 

Sometimes  sad. 

Never  frivolous. 

Gentle,  stern  and  free. 


XXVIII 

MOUNT  RAINIER 

Something  untrodden  in  the  routine  dust 
Of  unconcerned  humanity,  something 
Unclaimed,  some  spot  yet  sacred,  undefiled, 
Above,  beyond  the  daily  round  of  form. 

Still  native,  free  and  pure  — such  seekest  thou, 
O idle  dreamer  ? Yonder  turn  thy  gaze 
To  that  intrepid  peak  that  fills  the  sky  ; 

To  human  eyes  still  changeful,  whether  in 
The  hueless  lights  of  cold  and  sunless  dawn. 

Or  in  the  warmer  tints  of  brilliant  sunsets  ; 

Yet  endlessly  the  same,  uplifted  and 
Unmoved,  most  strong,  unmindful  of  the  storms 
Of  human  destiny. 


MOUNT  RAINIER 


67 


Fact  visible  of  God  invisible, 

And  mile-post  of  His  ways,  perpetual 
And  snowy  tabernacle  of  the  land. 

While  purples  at  thy  base  this  peaceful  sea. 

And  thy  hither  slopes  are  bathed  in  evening’s  sunlight, 

Methinks  I hear  soft  voices  calling  from 

Thy  summits,  calling  men  to  prayer  and  love  ; 

For  nothing  now  is  worshipful  and  reverence 
Unknown,  unless  idolatry  is  such. 

Aye,  scoffing  fills  the  mouths  of  men  until 
They  sicken,  contemptuous  of  their  own  contempt. 
But  thee  they  may  not  ever  mock  nor  scorn. 

Thou  saintly  eremite,  white-haired  and  old. 

Still  bondsman  to  a dull  reality, 

Lonely  as  thou,  perchance  as  desolate. 

Moving  among  my  fellow-men  unfelt 
And  foreign  to  their  customed  purposes. 

Thou  risest  on  my  sight  like  the  fulfillment 
Of  a forgotten  hope  ; and  trembling  ’neath 


68 


MARGINS 


The  inspiration  of  thy  loveliness, 

O’er  whelmed  by  thy  unstained  sublimity, 

Mine  eyes  grow  dim,  and  in  an  ecstacy 
Of  confidence  I tread  my  leprous  path. 

For  the  art  I serve  is  like  to  leprosy. 

Compelling  me  till  death  to  walk  alone. 

O,  ever,  while  this  lapsing  brain  shall  hold 
The  attribute  of  memory,  how  far 
Soever  I may  journey  from  thy  summit. 

E’en  in  the  level  prairie  I will  raise 
Thee  up,  and  feel  thee  towering  there  above  me. 
Yea,  when  all  else  forgotten  is,  when  life 
Just  lingers  ere  its  flight,  thou  shalt  appear 
In  wondrous  glory  to  my  mental  vision. 

And  vivid  then  a god  shall  tread  thy  dome. 


XXIX 


Love’s  primal  moments  are  his  best, 
While  yet  a new  and  modest  guest ; 
The  first  fleeting  touch  of  finger  tips, 
The  first  soft  pressure  of  the  lips. 

Too  oft,  amidst  his  full  possession. 
Begins  a rapid  retrogression  : 

O be  forever  but  a promised  bride. 
That  this  sweetest  rapture  may  abide. 


XXX 


DESOLATION 

My  heart’s  a desert,  motionless  and  lone, 

Save  when  a blast  of  scorching,  parching  wind. 
Of  mercy’s  moisture  to  hot  dryness  thinned. 
Tears  through  its  sandy  waste  with  wail  and  moan. 
And  shrieks  in  terror,  mindful  of  its  own 

Fierce  solitude  ; as  one  whose  ears  are  dinned 
With  silence  begs  by  cries  if  he  hath  sinned. 
And  answerless  redoubles,  as  his  fears  are  grown, 
His  hissing  shouts,  lost  in  vacuity. — 

And  on  my  heart’s  most  barren  stretch  appears 
No  quenchful  spring,  no  easeful  memory 
Of  fragrant  mead,  but  bleached  bone  there  leers 
And  burns  the  sight  of  recollection’s  eye. 

While  drowns  the  fire  in  mocking  fruitless  tears. 


XXXI 


GRAY-HAIRED  BEAUTY 

A mien  that’s  moral  but  suffused  with  light 
Of  tenderness,  expressive  of  a soul 
That  hath  deep  sweetened  as  folly  her  control 
Hath  forfeited  to  years  more  free  from  spite 
And  youthful  jealousies  ; the  starry  night 
Just  fading  out  from  eyes,  that  men  extol 
To-day  beyond  young  Vesta’s  passioned  roll ; 
The  tinge  of  cheek  just  fluttering  for  its  flight, 

And  locks  luxuriant  yet,  in  Grecian  knot 

Caught  up  ; erect  and  supple  frame  and  round. 
Command  of  self  and  others  richly  gowned  — 
To  love  these  beauties  were  idolatry  ; 

But  might  her  love  sojourn  in  my  sad  grot. 

The  penalties  of  hell  were  grace  to  me. 


XXXII 


confre:res 

Ever  by  my  side, 
Two  confreres  bide  ; 
On  any  strand 
By  any  tide, 

In  every  land 
Or  far  or  near — 
They  are  my  pride, 
I hold  them  dear. 

In  outline  clear. 

One  is  the  man 
I might  have  been  ; 
More  shadowy 
Less  plainly  seen, 
Tho'  fair,  the  man 
I yet  may  be. 


confr^;res 


73 


I slink  between 
With  faltering  fear — 
The  world  grows  green, 
The  world  grows  sere, 
Still  arm  in  arm 
We  face  the  days. 

I feel  the  charm 
Of  each  ablaze 
Within  my  veins, 

But  each  disdains 
My  trembling  voice. 

My  vicious  choice  ; 

And  tho’  with  scorn 
They  break  my  sleep. 
And  chide  me  sore, 

I can  but  weep 
Each  cheerless  morn, 
And  love  them  more. 


74 


MARGINS 


Sweet  friends  and  shades  — 
While  older  one, 

The  other  fades ; 

His  race  is  run 
Equal  with  mine. 

One  shroud  shall  twine 
About  us  both, 

However  loath 
Our  mystic  trine 
To  sever  so. 

Revoke  the  oath 
Of  long  ago. 

Blessed,  serene. 

To  Paradise 
The  man  shall  rise, 

I might  have  been. 


XXXIII 


My  finger  ’round  she  ringed  a violet 

Born  where  the  Southern  Cross  is  sparkling  set 

The  blossom  a sapphiric  gem, 

The  ring  the  interlaced  stem. 

O dearer  than  the  jewels  of  the  sky, 

More  sweet  than  any  fiower  earth  may  fly. 
About  thy  loveliness  I twine 
This  verse,  forever,  as  a sign. 


XXXIV 


I have  loved,  I have  lived, 

I have  failed,  I have  won, 

I have  dreamed,  I have  waked  — 
'Neath  the  moon  and  the  sun 
Bury  me,  bury  me  deep. 

I have  cursed,  I have  blessed, 

I have  thought,  I have  done, 
I have  sowed,  I have  reaped  ; — 
'Neath  the  moon  and  the  sun 
Bury  me,  bury  me  deep. 


XXXV 


MISANTHROPY 

Desist,  reviling  Spirit  ! thy  acclaim 
Insinuates,  sirenically  toned. 

But  thou  shalt  not  deter  me,  nor  shalt  shame 
Me  into  silence  : I shall  live,  be  stoned 
Or  monumented,  and  thy  upased  barbs. 

Sarcastic,  shall  no  engine  find  in  me 
To  thrust  them  through  the  happiness  that  garbs 
Some  sanguine  hearts  from  torpid  misery. 

Tho'  by  Jehovah’s  inquisition  racked, 

Tho’  His  hand  plunge  me  in  a searing  lye, 

Tho’  on  the  wheel  of  dire  misfortune  gouged  and 
cracked, 

Tho’  my  own  mother  scornfully  may  pass  me  by, 
I still  shall  love  my  God,  my  life,  my  kind. 

And  die  with  courage  in  my  look,  tho’  blind. 


XXXVI 


Cursed  inebriate  nation, 

lyO  ! where  she  wallows  in  gold  ; 
Drunk  with  the  dollar’s  damnation, 
Withered  and  sottishly  old. 

Crazed  by  the  absinthe  of  riches. 

Bleared  and  bewildered  she  goes  ; 
Shrieks,  as  she  staggers  and  pitches, — 
Money  will  solace  my  woes. 


XXXVII 


STILL 

Still  midst  the  prose  a poem  we  weave, 
Pallid  with  doubt  yet  dare  to  believe, 
Stricken  with  frost  the  garden  lies  sere. 
Flowers  shall  bloom  again  in  a year  : 

Thus  to  my  love  I come  from  my  hate. 
Worn  with  the  day,  but  strong  for  my  fate. 

Tempests  will  rage  the  heralds  of  calms. 
Battle  is  elsewhere,  peace  in  thy  arms. 
Braving  the  first,  but  seeking  the  last. 

Fire  is  the  future,  ashes  the  past  : 

Let  us  not  linger  when  we  may  speed. 
Stanching  our  wounds  tho’  after  we  bleed. 

Still  with  our  tears  a smile  may  we  blend. 
In  discord  prelude  in  harmony  end. 


8o  MARGINS 

Fill  with  our  hope  sails  slack  with  despair, 
Sailing  o’er  seas  forbidden  or  rare  : 
Sweetheart  ’tis  love  with  genius  untold 
Touches  the  dross  and  turns  it  to  gold. 


XXXVIII 

THUS 

Some  unworn  thought, 
Some  unused  word. 
Some  tone  untaught. 

Some  rhyme  unheard  ; 
Some  nobler  aim. 

Some  further  lore. 
Shall  add  a name, 

A poet,  more. 

FINIS. 


/ 


